


Brief Dissertation on the State of the Heart

by schwarzesloch



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, Drama, M/M, Male Slash, Romance, Shounen-ai, Yaoi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-15
Updated: 2013-08-15
Packaged: 2017-12-23 14:15:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/927471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/schwarzesloch/pseuds/schwarzesloch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Summary: Somewhere between friends and lovers, closer to none and further from both, is where Francis and Antonio are and where they plan to stay for a long time... or maybe not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brief Dissertation on the State of the Heart

**Author's Note:**

> Rating: PG-13 for swearing and smoking and, well, read warnings  
> Characters/Pairings: Francis Bonnefoy/Antonio Fernandéz Carriedo (not one-sided), mention of Arthur Kirkland, implied England/Portugal, brief cameos by Portugal (Maria) and Gilbert, the awesomest of the awesomest  
> Timeframe: Present  
> Disclaimer: Characters belong to Hidekaz Himaruya although I can say this version of Portugal is an OC  
> Warnings: Human-names used, implied homosexuality, drinking, smoking, swearing, Bastard!Antonio just in the last bit, fluff, OC. Also, sorry for Portugal’s name, it’s one of the most popular Portuguese names ever and I didn’t really give it much thought.  
> Notes: English isn’t my first language and this is not beta-ed (just in case you find some terrible mistake. And if you do please tell me so I can fix it :3). If you like it I'll probably write a sequel since this feels a little incomplete to me (and also because it would be funny to continue). Sorry for the huge note. Without further ado, I hope you enjoy the reading.

01.

Sometimes, when his sister turns away and completely ignores him, Antonio goes after a friend and asks him to come over. He always enjoys his two best friend’s company, and that’s who he usually turns to when Maria decides that poisoning Arthur’s coffee isn’t funny anymore and either kicks him out or leaves with the Englishman following like a puppy. Antonio used to be that puppy.

Francis and Gilbert don’t mind coming over – they laugh, make fun of their love lives and go out to see if someone wants to sleep with them, being all hot and manly and everything they convince themselves of. They usually go back to Antonio’s with no company and very drunk. No one said going out at night was easy.

They lay on the couch in his living room, tired and almost falling asleep as the Spaniard goes into the kitchen to prepare them some water, stumbling on his own feet and giggling uncontrollably. Antonio usually fills the glasses only after pouring enough water on himself that it almost feels like it’d been raining on him for a whole day. He continues with the giggles fits and eventually mistakes water for champagne and gets even drunker – how he does it, he doesn’t know.

He makes his way back to the living room, where Francis and Gilbert are laughing very loudly and he thinks that if his sister were there she would hit them all and kick them out. Gilbert has a bottle of beer in one hand and is cleaning the other on his shirt – where that bottle came from Antonio has no idea, but he asks the Prussian if he has more anyway.

Gilbert answers with a slow nod of the head, controlling himself not to burst into laughter and shower Antonio with the beer he just started drinking, but offers him one anyway (Where was he hiding them?). Francis takes a pack of cigarettes from his coat and tries to light one, but Antonio scolds him right before he succeeds and sends him outside. Francis gets up with a pout on his lips and leaves, motioning for Antonio to go with him. After a very boring chat with Gilbert, who’s probably drunker than the both of them together (which should be physically impossible, but still) about whether they should or shouldn’t go outside because, “what is wrong with you two, it’s fucking freezing outside, just let him smoke inside for once, can’t you tell your sister and eyebrows reek of tobacco?”, they open the balcony’s glass doors and are finally exposed to the night’s cold air. All three of them shudder, a shiver running down their spines. Gilbert asks Francis if he doesn’t mind lending him a cigarette, but the Frenchman gets offended and starts rambling on about how he always does everything for Gilbert and how Gilbert never gives his things back – and besides, why would you give a finished cigarette back? Gilbert tells him to shut the fuck up and snatches one from him anyway, which causes Antonio to laugh whole-heartedly, head way too clouded with alcohol and dancing and confusion and clubbing.

After both his friends are done smoking they go back inside and Francis shoves his ridiculously feminine hands in Antonio’s face, who observes them with wide emerald eyes and successive bats of his eyelashes, amazed at how slim and pale and long his fingers are. He grabs them and starts twisting his fingers, to which Francis growls, but then intertwines them and gives the Frenchman a lazy, cat-like smile, which the blonde returns.

\- You were supposed to tell me if they smelled too much, Tonio – Francis says, and perhaps the alcohol has really got into Antonio’s brain and confused his senses, but he thinks he sees the faintest shade of pink creeping onto the Frenchman’s cheeks.

\- Ah, uh, well, they, eh - Antonio isn't sure of what he's saying, the words are blocking his throat and his brain and he can't think of anything smart to say and then he feels a hot shiver down his spine and - No. No, no they don’t, they don't - he says and it feels like he's probably reassuring himself of something - he's not sure what, tho-- and then something churns in his chest and it suddenly makes sense when he lets go of Francis' hands, who stares, bewilderingly, at him, in mute wonder and astonishment and something Antonio can't tell because the blonde's eyes are clouded -- but it feels good, it might just be good.

02.

Antonio doesn’t like being alone. Not at all. He likes to be with his friends – hang out, party, fiesta, diversion – and he wants to understand when they say they can’t be with him but he fails and calls them so many times that they have to block his number. He flings himself onto his fluffy couch, turning on the TV lazily. There’s an American series on, but as much as he tries he can’t catch up with the plot. He sees shots, guns, police officers and detectives and agents and cars blowing up, but he doesn’t understand a shit of what’s going on.

Suddenly, there’s a knock on his door and he instantly gets up, like he was hit by a lightning bolt, and sprints to the door, wearing only a pair of shorts and a dirty t-shirt he wears when he stays at home and doesn’t mind getting stains on his clothes.

\- Hola! – he says cheerfully as he opens the door. Francis is on the other side, texting someone, which makes him look a lot less interested than he actually is, but Antonio doesn’t care and hugs him briefly, patting his back once or twice before letting him go.

\- Ow, you’re going to suffocate me like that, Antonio – he says, tucking his phone In his jeans’ pocket. – Hey there. How are you? – Francis says with a cocky grin.

\- I’m bored – Antonio confesses, and he closes the door and leads the Frenchman inside. He smells of roses and expensive wine and romantic nights. – Make yourself comfortable. Why did you stop by?

Francis wants to say, “I never really wanted to block your number, Antonio, I’m sorry”, and wants to kiss his boredom away and nuzzle the Spaniard’s light brown hair as gently as he can and offer him the rose he has inside his jacket that he bought for him anyways, but instead he says, – A cup of coffee would be fine.

\- I’ll be right back! – Antonio says in his usually cheery voice and runs to the kitchen. He doesn’t come back as soon as he promised and Francis furrows his brow, worried. He takes his jacket off, carefully enveloping the rose in it, and lays it on a chair nearby before heading to the kitchen.

\- Antonio? – he asks, sounding confused. There’s steaming coffee on the Spaniard’s dirty t-shirt and a lot more on the kitchen’s counter and floor. He widens his eyes at the scene and offers to help to clean up.

\- I’m okay, it’s alright – Antonio dismisses him with a gentle smile, and Francis feels something inside him desperately wanting to break free and hurting his ribcage and chest, but he thinks, it’s nothing, it’s alright. He grabs a towel and cleans the floor, kneeling beside Antonio, who’s trying to dry his shirt in the oven.

\- Antonio, don’t do that! – he shouts and snatches the t-shirt from the Spaniard’s hands immediately before he sets it on fire. – What’s got into you, ami? Are you okay?

Antonio looks at him, all dishevelled hair and dirty shirt and feet against the cold tile floor, rubbing his neck with an uneasy smile on his face. – Yeah. It happens.

Antonio doesn’t want to say, but he thinks – hey, maybe he won’t notice -, but he’s Francis, France, el país del amor, and of course he’ll understand, but Antonio tries to play it cool and fool himself one more time and repeats a mantra inside his head, “nah, he won’t notice.”

When Antonio’s too busy finding them some cups and homemade cookies in his unorganized kitchen cupboards, Francis quietly sneaks out of the kitchen and hides the rose he bought for Antonio in one of the Spaniard’s bookcases, hoping he finds it, silently praying that he knows Francis knows.

03.

Francis wonders if Antonio will ever pay more attention to everything in life. He thinks the Spaniard doesn’t really give much thought to everything around him and doesn’t pay attention to little details which are, in Francis’ perspective, what makes life so beautiful. But look at him – Antonio -, he’s not a detail, he’s the joy of wherever he goes, wherever he is, he’s the light in a party full of sweaty bodies and drunk people, and he thinks that Antonio can’t be that oblivious at all because he’s too smart to just not get it.

He puts his hands in his pockets and walks with Antonio beside him, trying to act casual. He didn’t even put his hair into a ponytail this time.

\- I don’t know where we’re going – Antonio says, sounding confused and innocent, but Francis knows better. He wants to tell him, “we’re going to have the night of our lifes, mon amour”, but he can’t, and his usually smug grin falters when he realizes he can never do it, he can never have him, he and Antonio – they just can’t.

\- I say we go to a restaurant – Francis proposes, sounding like he’s only thinking of it at the moment when the idea’s been haunting him for weeks. He shudders when Antonio puts a hand on his arm and turns around curiously.

\- Oye, hombre – the Spaniard starts with a smile that looks like it holds all the beauty and freshness and joy in the world -, don’t think too much of it. Podemos irnos por un par de copas, eh? Qué tal?

Francis doesn’t know what to say (he’s fine with anything, really, it’s just—his idea, his perfect idea of a perfect date, of everything so perfect that it hurts, candles lit all over the place and a smooth breeze hitting their faces as they eat, calmly looking in each other’s eyes like they’re the world, a hand accidently grabbing another and two pairs of lips meeting for a brief moment that contains foreve—well, it is somehow down the drain now). He’s thought too much about it – so much that there’s actually something pushing inside his chest when he and Antonio enter a typical Spanish bar and his plans go down the drain – and it’s pounding so hard that he can’t force himself to actually live in this reality. They are entering a bar, not a glamorous restaurant, and they’ll have tapas and beer for dinner, and perhaps watch some football because it’s Sunday. He wants to tell Antonio what he thinks, “well, you see, perhaps the bar isn’t really the best of options if you want to have dinner, is it?”, but if that means seeing the Spaniard’s facade falling and a smile vanishing from his face then Francis takes it and doesn’t complain.

\- Dos cervezas, por favor – Antonio orders for him and Francis wonders when he gave him the power to do that (he’s not dreaming, it can’t have happened. They’re not together and they don’t share cold mornings in rumpled sheets and beautiful, overwhelming sunsets on the beaches of Spain).

Two bottles of beer come in sight and the barman opens them for them. He offers them the drinks and suggests they watch a little bit of football – “Mirad, es el Madrid que juega” -, and that’s what they end up doing.

By the end of the night, after one and two and three and perhaps six beers, Francis can’t steady himself anymore. He has long forgotten the dinner and its concept, and somehow Antonio manages to get him to his feet, luring him with a tempting white smile that is everything Francis can see at the moment.

\- Nos vamos – the Spaniard says softly, carrying Francis out the bar, a hand on his waist and a pale arm over his shoulders.

They’re outside and the cool night air hits Francis fully in the face as if trying to wake him up from his drunken stupor, and it confuses him and he frowns. Antonio is looking at everywhere on the street with sparkling green eyes, watching out for cars or pedestrians, but he sees none and walks, with Francis’ heavy arm over his shoulder, to a street full of lights and cars and people. Movement.

Francis’ brain is obviously clouded by one too many beers and his vision is blurred; the blinding lights everywhere aren’t helping either. He clutches the Spaniard’s shirt and lays his head on the other’s shoulder, thinking of how good it would be to just go home and lie in bed and sleep and forget everything that happened that night. But Antonio is looking at him with piercing, joyful emerald eyes and a smile that is probably more beautiful than how he perceives it, like all those other smiles. He looks expectant, but Francis doesn’t know what to say.

\- C’mon, I brought you here! Aren’t you going to say anything? – Antonio pouts, pointing at a mix of hard lights and red with a tinge of brown.

\- Where are we? – is all Francis can ask. He can’t make out what’s right in front of him – he was never one to drink much, that’s probably why – and he’s giving Antonio an inquiring look.

\- Restaurant – Antonio says simply with a soft roll of the tongue, smiling down at Francis, who’s trying to steady himself on the Spaniard’s shoulder. – You said you wanted to go.

\- Did you really… did you think… - Francis starts but finds out the words are too hard to get out of his mouth.

Antonio shoves him inside the expensive, flamboyant restaurant Francis himself wanted to bring him to and lets the Spaniard order for him, a soft smile never leaving his lips. He eventually passes out and is carried home by a worried, sleepy Antonio, but hey, it’s better than nothing.

04.

\- He can’t be that blunt. No one’s that blunt, man.

\- He is.

\- What have you done?

\- What he lets me.

\- No, man, that’s not the way to go! You go there and tell him where you want to go and what you want to do. There’s no other way to hold him down.

Francis thinks bitterly, “It’s probably better not to hold him down at all.”

\- But Gilbert. He’s—

\- Well of course I know who he is, duh – Gilbert says, almost mocking him. Francis frowns. – No buts.

\- Oh, we better stay like this. Friends.

\- You’re not fooling me, bro. I’ve seen the way you… well… you know. I’ve seen the way you two. And I couldn’t be more sure that you two, well, you—

Francis wasn’t paying attention anymore. Antonio was just a friend. They were just friends. That was all there was to it.

And yet, he was the person Francis desired the most in the world and the one who made him feel the most miserable. He wasn’t ready to give up.

05.

\- So, uh, hola? I thought I’d call, amigo! – says Antonio cheerfully to the telephone in his hand. He is talking to Francis, (as he’s been for the past few weeks because Gilbert always says he has stuff to do, even if they know it’s lies and Antonio (thinks he) knows he doesn’t want to hang out with them), thinking of asking him out to some place they still haven’t been to.

\- Salut, Antonio – Francis says, trying not to fumble through his words, closing his eyes and swallowing an undesired lump in his throat that he didn’t even know was there. – It was a good thing you called, I’m sick of being at home. We could go somewhere.

Antonio beams, even if Francis can’t seem him. – Where do you want to go?

Francis ponders, “Well, if I say anywhere is fine we’ll probably end up in another bar”, but he says, – Anywhere is fine with me.

\- That’s awesome! To be honest, I don’t know any new places, man. Do you?

No, he doesn’t.

\- You could always come over – Francis suggests, glancing quickly around the living room as he feels his face heats up, but hey, it’s seven in the evening and the sun is still up.

\- Ok! I’ll be there in ten minutes – Antonio says, cheerfully as always and hangs up, leaving an astounded Francis holding the phone in his hand, thinking about how he got here and how this might just be the chance he’s been waiting for so long.

*  
Ten minutes fly and before the Frenchman knows it Antonio is knocking on his door. He opens it, revealing a cheery, smiling Spaniard with a bottle of wine on his hand and a shopping bag on the ground. He welcomes Antonio inside with a flourish gesture of the hand and can’t stop himself from wondering what is inside the shopping bag.

\- You didn’t need to bring anything – he sighs, but he’s not tired, just nervous.

\- If you’re going over then you should bring something, right? – and the bright smile on Antonio’s face as he speaks only makes Francis feel worse for all the times he went over to his house and never took anything with him but an airy head and silly feelings. Antonio sets the wine bottle on the counter and proceeds to take out whatever is in the bag.

\- I thought I’d bring them too – he says, smiling apologetically, as if he’s sorry for bringing his red friends along.

\- You like them and I like them too, so we can make something with them – Francis says, looking intently at about 10, 20 tomatoes Antonio is displaying on the counter.

\- Yeah – Antonio smiles and goes back to crouching to take all the tomatoes from the plastic bag, leaving Francis looking at him with a loving gaze he quickly erases from his face.

They end up cooking pasta (Antonio says it’s all Lovino and Feliciano’s fault for getting him to enjoy the dish, that if it weren’t for them always insisting on having it when they’re over he would have never grown so fond of it) with tomato sauce and a little salad and drinking the bottle of wine Antonio had brought with him. The TV isn’t on and they’re left to eat by themselves, with the buzzing of bugs and rustles of heavy leaves outside the window for company. Antonio feels a little uncomfortable with the silence, so he starts a conversation about aromatic herbs and beaches and something else that doesn’t make sense with Francis, who engages in it immediately, afraid of the so common oppressive silence.

Afraid Antonio might get tired easily. That he’ll get away, like water through insecure hands.

\---

Antonio ends up spending the night at Francis’ place, and hey, there’s the opportunity he’s been waiting for the whole night, maybe years now.

But as he watches a drunken Antonio curled up on his couch, an arm falling out of it carelessly, all Francis is able to do is go to his own bedroom, fluffy the pillows and take off the mattress because God knows how hot it can be in June nights, get Antonio to his feet (though he’s sure the Spaniard doesn’t notice) and lie him on the bed, pulling a silk bed sheet over his hot body. (If you wake up before seven, a cool breeze might make your feet curl and your spine shiver.) He makes his way to the couch, fluffs another pillow and lets his head fall in it.

Perhaps they were never meant to be.

06.

 

\- I’ve seen that face before.

\- Uh?

\- I know what’s happening. Even if you’re an ass to Arthur and me, I wish you the best with whoever it is you’re in love.

How did she? He didn’t even—he didn’t know—but she – what the—

\- Listen, hermanita…

\- I know you, Tonio.

\- Francis—he would—we would never—oh, that’s silly, honestly. – but he feels blood rushing to his face, and even if the windows are open he’s sure it’s not from the heat outside.

\- You’re silly, brother. You know what’s going on. Do something.

\- I can’t—I can’t just—oh, damn it—

But she was already out the door, Arthur hot on her trail. Stupid Englishman, always interrupting their conversations.

He wasn’t ready for this. No. He wasn’t ready for this at all. Francis was just a friend. They were just friends. That was all there was to it.

And yet, the looks, the joy, the laughs, the walks, the late nights watching stupid movies, the way they got so confident when they were drunk around each other, Gilbert and his beer obsession, Francis’ wish to take him out to dinner in a really nice place, not one of those bars he likes to pretend to be restaurants, silent nights spent looking at the sky, badmouthing his sister and el cejudo anglosajón, taking pictures of each other when they’re drunk, long walks on beaches or streets of Spain, the visits to the Eiffel Tower at night (which might have sounded extremely cheesy and romantic at the time, but were all Antonio could ask for now, and yet), going to each other’s house to cook meals more complex than equations just to try some new flavours, Antonio watching football and Francis watching Antonio, all green eyes glued to the screen, the scent of freshly mowed lawns in the morning, blue skies or perhaps Francis’ eyes and vivid twilights, scars and touches of the hands which were mere accidents, the feeling that they held each other's world in their eyes and the pang in his chest whenever he thought of them – all those things held and still hold him back now, and yet—

 

Antonio decides to let it go from that moment on.

**Author's Note:**

> mon amour - french for my love  
> oye, hombre - spanish for look, man  
> cejudo anglosajón - spanish for something like 'english eyebrows' or 'with big eyebrows'  
> Podemos irnos por un par de copas, eh? Qué tal? - spanish for we can go have a drink, eh, what about it?


End file.
